


Trust Numbers

by SueG5123



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-02-01 21:03:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12712908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SueG5123/pseuds/SueG5123
Summary: Charlie tossed back his own drink.  “Alleging the U.S. military used nerve gas on civilians, and then having to retract it—even Westmoreland in Vietnam didn’t go that far.  We’re charting entirely new ground...“





	1. Pride Goeth...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whufc](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=whufc).



So, obviously, there would not be a hand off to Terry Smith in Washington tonight.

In his desire to contain the contagion of _Genoa_ , Will McAvoy departed from the usual nightly patter and simply wished viewers a good night.

In as subdued a manner as he could manage.

There had been a funereal air about the whole broadcast, in fact. The retraction came at the top of the show, the only place honorable journalists would place it. And he even offered a recap mea culpa near the end of the broadcast, too, in case any viewer had missed it.

Atonement for _Genoa_ seemed to require baring one’s breast. Anything to make plain ACN’s acknowledgement of its own hubris.

During the commercial break after the C block, Jim’s voice over the interruptible feedback unit relayed the snippets of media and social media reaction Neal had culled from the internet. As could have been predicted, there had been righteous indignation from veterans groups, open derision from conservative news outlets, and a lot of smug tsk-tsk-ing from every media critic who weighed in.

As they all inevitably would.

There would be no sympathy for ACN.

Will sought to maintain a poker face throughout the telecast, because, whatever his feelings of regret and mortification, he couldn’t be sure that looking too contrite might not backfire. 

Mercifully, the red light on the camera finally doused, signaling the end of the show.

As technicians quietly backed away and Will yanked the IFB from his ear, Charlie Skinner entered the studio with the necessary anesthetic for such a singular night: a bottle of bourbon and two ACN mugs.

“You handled that well.” Then, Charlie dropped his head to one side and shook it slightly with some thought he didn't seem to want to commit to words. “Not the kind of thing you ever think you’ll have to—“ His voice trailed off and he shrugged in lieu of additional words. 

Then, he poured and pushed a cup toward Will.

Will took the mug and swirled the liquor around. “Was it—you know, _enough_?” 

“How the hell do I know?” Charlie tossed back his own drink. “Alleging the U.S. military used nerve gas on civilians, and then having to retract it—even Westmoreland in Vietnam didn’t go that far. We’re charting entirely new ground, fuck-up-wise. “ He stopped at Will’s wince. 

Will let several beats pass. “How's Leona taking it?”

Charlie shrugged and tugged at his ear, “She can be a scrappy old bird. I expect we’ll get some painful lecture about public trust and ‘for the good of the network’—that sort of thing. She will vent but ultimately see the wisdom in allowing us to resign in shame. Reese already let me know he has a shortlist of potential successors. I imagine he’s calling some of them tonight.” He glanced up at the clock.

As Will picked up the mug again, his eyes drifted around Charlie to the window into the bullpen. All appeared to be normal post-show wrap-up, the staffers subdued but functioning within usual parameters: Sampat riveted to his screen, a pen stuck in his mouth; Gary with a phone clamped to one ear; Tamara calling some unheard information to Kendra three desks over, who considered it briefly before speaking to Martin; Jenna weaving between desks while balancing a raft of Starbucks cups.

Will’s eyes were drawn to a mute but plainly urgent conversation between Jim and Maggie. Jim made some gestures over his shoulder and Maggie bent over her desk, evidently searching for whatever it was that Jim had told her he needed.

Charlie cleared his throat, interrupting the reverie.

“So, I’m thinking—this can be a positive thing. I just need to approach it with the proper spirit. Retirement. I mean, I’ll only be leaving a few years earlier than I probably would’ve anyway. And now I can take Nancy on that trip she’s been hinting about—“ At Will’s raised eyebrows, he added in explanation, “Chichen Itza—some Aztec temple in Mexico where they used to sacrifice people by cutting out their beating hearts—not altogether an unfitting end for me by this point, all things considered.” He straightened and returned to his original thought. “Plus, I’ll have time to write that book now. Wartime exploits and all that bullshit nostalgia. You?”

Will took another swallow of liquor and shrugged. “Plastic surgery and a change of name?”

Charlie huffed. “Nah. Your Q factor makes you like Teflon. None of the _Genoa_ stuff will stick to you. We’ll work on Leona, make her relent about that non-compete clause. And in the meantime—well, you can always count your stock options.”

He made a sour look in response.

They sat silent for a long moment. Then, finally, Charlie declared in obvious response to what they were both thinking, “Mac’ll be okay, too.”

_Who were they kidding?_

The preordained resignations of Will and Charlie were _pro forma_ and would be widely recognized as such. The expected response of senior management to a colossal fuck-up on their watch. And, despite any humiliation the resignations might entail, both Charlie and Will would emerge mostly unscathed. As president of the news division, it would be understood that Charlie was merely accepting rightful responsibility; as anchor, it would be widely inferred that Will had been hitched to a bad story prepared by an underling (managing editor, be damned).

Eventually, their peers and media-observers would exonerate them.

No, the lasting guilt for the Genoa debacle would rest exclusively with MacKenzie McHale. She led the newsroom—she Okayed the story—her people researched and prepared the story. Her culpability was manifest and her career was now radioactive.

She was through. And both Will and Charlie knew it.

“Yeah. Mac’ll be fine,” Will nonetheless returned. “Unsurpassed professional reputation. _Gruesomely_ ethical. She’ll probably—“ He stopped. “Jesus, fuck, Charlie. How did it get to this?”

“Dunno.” Charlie sighed and closed his fist around the neck of the bourbon bottle. “After I’ve met with Leona—once we have a timeline for what happens next—I’ll need to say something to them,” inclining his head to indicate the newsroom staff. “I told Mac not to blame herself. She has a rather, um, overdeveloped sense of responsibility, you know. You might want to say something to her yourself.”

Through the glass, behind Charlie, Will could see Maggie with her pixie red haircut pick up the phone on her desk, her eyes dart around the bullpen, finally focus on the glass of the studio. Her eyes met his.

“Yeah. I have to pass her office anyway.”

Charlie grunted and brought up his chin, as he often did when confronted with something with which he was uncertain. “Well. Just tell her—make sure she knows she still has your confidence.” His voice took on a scolding tone. “And don’t—“

Will’s expression became an exaggerated protest of innocence. 

“You know what I mean.”

 

But Mac wasn’t in her office, so Will snagged Maggie as she slunk toward the elevator landing.

“Check Control. Jim cleared it after the show—he said he didn't want people bothering her. Though, as it turned out, that wasn’t a problem, because no one wanted to talk about _Genoa_ and God help Jerry if he ever darkens this newsroom again. Tonight, everyone just wanted to get out of here as quickly as they could.” 

Maggie shrugged and stepped into the lift as the door slid back. “But if you see her—well, maybe you ought to, I don't know—reinforce that it was Jerry and there wasn’t anything she could’ve—because, you know, she’s gonna believe she could have prevented—well, you know.”

Allowing the elevator doors to close, Will turned and headed back across the emptying bullpen. 

He knew all about Mac’s propensity for shouldering guilt. It was what allowed him to goad her so easily, torment her, put one hundred percent of the retributive responsibility for the rubble of them on her shoulders and know she would carry the load.

From the moment she’d interrupted the staff meeting in Will’s office with the thunderbolt they’d have to retract _Genoa_ , he had known how deeply and personally it would cut her. She had looked savagely shocked, practically trembling with anxiety. Tears had shone in her eyes and she’d forced that tragic half-smile, which, in retrospect, seemed like a rictus of mortification. From the very moment she’d entered his office, it was obvious MacKenzie was barely holding it together, and only the staff’s decency in averting their eyes had prevented her spilling her own open tears of frustration, rage, and disbelief.

Retraction. Was there anything worse for a journalist? 

_No one will ever believe us now._

And there had never been anyone to whom credibility mattered more than Mac. 

 

When Will pushed through the door to Control, the only source of light was the brilliant over-saturated colors on the bank of eight screens. Two of the screens showed _Capitol Report_ , two showed adverts; the other four displayed only color bars. Everything immediately before the screens was garishly illuminated, the remainder of the room awash in deep shadows.

Of course, calling anything at ACN Control on this night seemed an affront. There was nothing of _control_ in the _Genoa_ aftermath; it reeked of having been out of control. How could anyone miss the paradox?

Mac was in the back of the small room, off to one side, and she turned her head slightly at his entry.

“I told Jim not to—“

“Haven’t seen him. Anyway, I was going to come find you.” He let the door close silently behind him. 

“Fire me.”

“Why don’t you come to the point?“ he returned, flippantly.

“You’re the only one who can. You can stop this ritualistic hari-kari—“

“Mac, this isn’t your fault. I know Charlie’s told you that, too. To fuck up on the scale this big—well, it really takes a village.” One side of his mouth hitched up in a laconic smile that he hoped would ratchet down the emotional tenor somewhat. “Leona’s meeting with Charlie, and they’re going to figure a path forward. A timeline for the inevitable, in a manner of speaking. We’d like to hang on long enough to call the election, if anyone’s still watching by then. Then—if the numbers aren’t there, if we can’t make the bounce—strategic resignation. But,” he emphasized, “together. You, me, and Charlie—all three of us are in this together.

She shook her head impatiently. “We didn’t misspell someone’s name in the chyron, Will—we accused the military and the administration of a reprehensible war crime—“

“We reported what we had, Mac, and we retracted it the moment we learned of our error. There was no malicious intent—we just stopped being good—“

“We don’t get a pass for being negligent,” she insisted. “And it is foolish to ignore the fact that I was the nexus—“

“There you go again, taking credit for every little—“

“Will!” The break in her voice warned him against further irreverence. “I was the one who should have checked—should’ve followed up, especially because Jim wasn’t here and Jerry—the Stomtonovich interview, I should have been there myself—of course, Maggie wasn’t ready yet, and I can’t let myself off the hook for that, either—I was complacent—allowed myself to become distracted—“ She shook her head. “I haven’t any excuse, not really. Survival depends upon vigilance and I--”

His perplexity was unfeigned. “You wanna unpack that last for me?”

“Valenzuela—I missed the clues that he was simply parroting what he thought I wanted him to say—“

“Wait. Go back to what you said before—“

“Stop with the Freudian crap.” Plainly incensed now, she slipped off the headset that had dangled around her neck since the end of the broadcast. “But if you want to do psychological excavations, then let me say that I don’t get why you won’t fire me. It would solve all your problems, really. It would publicly fix the blame for Genoa, pave the way for the rehabilitation of the show, allow the Lansings to make me the litigative lightning rod—“

“Mac, stop—“

“No, I’m serious. Firing me fixes everything and I don’t understand why you—“

“Mac—“ He moved into her space now, on the verge of grabbing her just to make her stop.

“You and Charlie can go on—they can go on—“ she gestured to the now darkened and deserted bullpen. “Firing me puts _Genoa_ in the rear view mirror faster than any court room victory—“

“Whoa, just stop. Stop whatever it is you’re—I’m not going to fire you.” 

“Is it possible there’s some element of torture here that I’ve missed? Is that it? You want to keep me around because you know how complete the professional humiliation, and you want to prolong it? You want me to dangle at the end of the rope, professionally and personally, and you want to hurt me badly enough that you’re willing to—“

“Jesus Christ, Mac.” This whole conversation, begun with the intent to offer some comfort, had now spun out of control. “I’m not your enemy.”

“You’ll understand if I say that most of the last three years hasn’t felt that way,” she lobbed back. 

_Touché._

“And you’ll understand—“ His retort was cut off by a whoosh that indicated a door had been opened behind him.

“Everything okay, Mac?”

Jim hung in the door, his expression leaving no doubt that he’d heard more than either of them would have wished.

She gave a tight nod. “I’m fine, Jim. Why don’t you go on home?”

“I can wait for you, if you want.”

“Not necessary. Go on, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

He dipped his head and, with a parting glare at Will, Jim withdrew.

“Good timing.” She began to gather folders and papers. 

“Yeah.” He was privately shamed at how readily his anger could still flare at her. Of course, she knew which buttons to push, how to goad him into a rage.

“I’m _not_ going to fire you, Mac.” It needed to be said again.

“Then I’ll work on getting you to change your mind.”


	2. Who'll Stop the Rain?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Will wasn’t the only one in the ACN food-chain with the clout to fire her and make her wear the blame for Genoa. If Will and Charlie, who obviously seemed to share Will’s opinion (if not his motivations) wouldn’t take the logical, most necessary next step, she had to find someone who could._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving!

**First Day After Retraction**

 

“I’ve got to take this,” Charlie said, waving MacKenzie into the office and to a chair opposite his desk, even as he reached for the phone on his desk.

“Mike, good to—of course—well, I understand that—c’mon, you know he doesn’t and that no one here would ever—“ Charlie’s words trailed off as he yielded the conversation to whoever was on the other end.

Mac tried to avert her eyes, to afford at least the semblance of privacy.

“And as I say, I understand,” Charlie soothed. “I’ve been there myself, so I know exactly what you’re—of course, we want—yes, I can absolutely promise—“ His eyes fell on Mac. “You have my personal assurance, Mike. Right.” Charlie dropped the phone into the cradle, his hand lingering on it for an extra moment, as if telegraphing some belated thought.

“Mike Tapley. Mad as hell.”

She flinched. _Of course._

“You’d think that just because he served thirty years in uniform and is under retainer to ACN as our military expert, he would have been consulted before we did a story that alleged a phenomenal war crime.” Charlie seemed to be talking to himself, and when he looked up, he realized how his words would hit MacKenzie.

A veritable indictment.

“That wasn’t—I didn’t mean—and Mike didn’t say—“

She threw her hands before her, gesturing to make him stop the protests.

“It’s all right, Charlie. I mean, I understand why he might feel that way. Mike was certainly left out of the loop and it turned out to be a grievous omission on our part. Involving him might have prevented—“

Charlie interrupted, feeling an obligation to clear the air a bit. “He just wanted to vent about not having been relied upon to help. More than just hurt feelings, he thinks he could have shown us the daylight in the story—or, at least, where the problems were.” He sighed and hoped his mollifying hadn’t begun to sound like condescension.

“Mike is right. I allowed Jerry to use questionable sources—I should have reined him in. The responsibility was mine, so the accountability should be mine, as well.” Her voice lowered and her eyes dropped. “I asked Will to fire—“

“Absolutely not. We’re not having that conversation at all, MacKenzie.”

“But, Charlie—“

“No.” He said it with the thundering vehemence of an Old Testament patriarch. “Out of the question. That subject is permanently off-the-table.” 

“Now,” he resumed, folding his hands on the desk top, “the reason I wanted to see you—“ There was no good way to phrase this, so doing it quickly would probably minimize the pain. Same philosophy as ripping off a Band-aid.

“As a result of _Genoa_ , Reese has directed an independent review of our verification processes. Anyone who had a hand in the story, including all the members of your Red Team, will need to make him or herself available next week.”

“Is this in anticipation of Jerry filing suit?”

“Oh, I think we can assume that litigation is coming, too, but, no, this is just AWM trying to corral its corporate maverick. Us.” He exhaled heavily. “Reese wants to reestablish our _journalistic credibility_ —” given his ironic tone, it was obvious Charlie was relaying the information the same way it had been delivered to him, “and expose our methods to the most _stringent professional scrutiny_.”

Mac was confident the competency of her team would impress any outside authority Reese might invite to review. On the strength of that knowledge, she relaxed a fraction. She even risked some levity. “As long as Reese isn’t bringing in Nina Howard at _TMI_ —“ 

But Charlie’s expression stopped her. 

“Seriously—he wouldn’t really—“

“Not _TMI_. We’re being spared that indignity, at least.”

Mac searched her mind for the second least objectionable scenario.

“The guy who did that piece on Will last year—“

She swallowed hard, knowing where this was leading. “Brian Brenner.”

“Yeah. He’s got a reputation for scolding the media and Reese wants the appearance of third party impartiality.”

“Just the appearance?” 

_And, oh, by the way—Brian, impartial?_

“He’ll settle for that, I think. Reese wants a public spanking and the harder, the better. He thinks a good thrashing will cleanse us in the public perception.”

She took a deep breath. “You know, there’s a history with—”

He shushed her with a wave. “I don’t know any of the details, and I don’t want to know ‘em. But, Mac, none of it will matter. You and I just have to go through the motions here. The final result of this perverse little review is preordained. ACN is going to be smacked around until we achieve viewer sympathy. So, just hold on and let’s take our lumps.”

“Does Will know?”

“Not yet. I’m discharging my due diligence, and I thought I’d start with you.” He leveled his eyes. “You make sure all the _Genoa_ team members make the interview appointments a priority. Good practice for later depositions, by the way.”

“Mrs. Lansing is okay with all this?”

“Mac, it isn’t like I haven’t spent hours arguing with her.”

Thoroughly sickened now, she looked at the clock. “Rundown meeting. Can I go?”

“Yeah.”

She made for the door, thoughts in turmoil.

“Oh, and Mac—one more thing. Don’t forget that I was the one who greenlighted _Genoa_.” His tone softened. “You aren’t wearing this hairshirt alone.”

 

 

Jim took the dry erase marker and put the tip to the white board.

“Okay. Benghazi follow-up. Gary, what did State tell you?”

Gary Cooper pushed back in his chair and threw his pen down. “Nothing.”

“The State Department had no comment?” 

“Oh, they had plenty to say. Just nothing to say to ACN.”

“You’re shitting me.” Jim capped the marker and turned.

“No.” Gary made an exaggerated shake of his head. “We were singled out. They ignored our request for a statement. They even neglected to send us a copy of the press release—I had to ask Al-Jazeera to let me see their copy. _Al Jazeera_ , Jim.” He deadpanned, “But what makes you think they might have been stonewalling us?”

Through the WebEx connection with the D.C. bureau, someone cleared his throat to interrupt.

“Yeah—Jim?”

“I’m here, Jake.”

“There was a thing here today, too .”

“Thing, what thing?”

“White House presser. Carney wouldn’t give me the time of day and our usual seat at the briefing was mysteriously reassigned to some low-life internet feed.”

Many pairs of eyes traded glances around the conference table.

Jim rubbed his jaw. “And you think this had something to do with—”

“Fucking _Genoa_ , Jim. The gift that keeps on giving. Maybe if you hadn’t been off screwing around on the Romney party wagon and Mac had been paying attention—”

“That’s enough, Jake, and good afternoon, one and all.” Entering the room, Mac tossed her folio on the table. “To be precise, the producer who cooked the story came from the D.C. office, not New York—but it serves no purpose for us to squabble about it. Now, if you have something to contribute to the rundown, give it to us. Please,” she added, not with sarcasm, but in an effort to be conciliatory. 

Jake Conroy huffed and returned to a more professional mien. Despite the White House frost, he nonetheless had gotten reaction to the recent Fox News poll that had Obama and Romney in a virtual deadheat for the election. Jim tucked the information into the top of the B block, and the meeting continued without further outburst.

Twenty minutes later, Jim made last minute assignments and collected his own notes as staffers filed out and back to their desks.

“Uh, Mac—you still there?” Jake’s disembodied voice once more came through the WebEx.

“Yes. Go ahead.” She leaned forward.

“I want to give you a heads up about something, but don’t kill the messenger—” He made a sound like an uncomfortable laugh.

“I won’t.” 

“I’ve got a friend over at the D.C. Fox affiliate and he tipped me that—well, that beginning tonight, O’Reilly is going to have a counter on his screen each night: How many days until ACN fires McAvoy.”

“I hope he’s prepared for a long count, because Will and _News Night_ will outlast O’Reilly. Thank you, Jake,” she managed in her most clipped delivery, as she disconnected the conference call.

 

It wasn’t until she was alone in her office that she finally had a moment to consider the import of Charlie’s news of Reese bringing in— _of all people_ —Brian Brenner to conduct a public shaming disguised as an internal review. 

With Brenner in the equation, the odds of even greater humiliations, professional as well as personal, rose exponentially.

Whatever professional rapport she and Will had created from the ashes of their previous relationship would be dashed now by Brian’s presence.

Surely, Will would relent and fire her. She had to make him see the sense of it.

 _Or_ —she could attempt to resign, perhaps come up with a way to convince Charlie (although that seemed remote now, given his parting words). 

But resignation lacked the castigatory impact of being fired. Will had to fire her. For the good of the organization. To exonerate him professionally.

 _Wait_. A new possibility occurred to her.

Will wasn’t the only one in the ACN food-chain with the clout to fire her and make her wear the blame for _Genoa_. If Will and Charlie, who obviously seemed to share Will’s opinion (if not his motivations) wouldn’t take the logical, most necessary next step, she had to find someone who could.

So, Reese Lansing was searching for a way to rehabilitate the network in the public mind. He might be receptive to designating a scapegoat.

 

After the show, Will positively glowered as he stalked back to his office. He had the jacket off and the tie loosened by the time he hit the office door.

Not since the disastrous second show of _News Night_ 2.0 had there been such a goat-rope. Only this time, instead of an obtuse beauty pageant contestant and a weirdo firearm advocate, there was the complete disintegration of a seemingly normal interview. 

_Hazel Courtney, spokesperson for the notoriously conservative Heritage Foundation, normally a sane (if right-leaning) voice, had suddenly departed from predictable remarks about a looming battle over the debt ceiling._

_“It should be no surprise that the Obama administration is approaching the nation’s balance sheet with the same error-laden nonchalance as ACN applied to its so-called investigatory journalism—.“_

What?

_“—And that careless disregard for the facts in the Genoa rescue mission, the willingness to profane the humanitarian goals this nation has always held paramount, the total absence of moral integrity—”_

_“Let’s try to return to the original—"_

_“—And, mainly, the blatant disrespect shown to our uniformed personnel, deployed far from home and in hostile lands, equating their actions with those of actual war criminals—”_

_“Yours has been an unacceptable non-answer to the question, which I doubt you even remember by this point.” Will cut her off, not paying particular attention to the flurry of loud and strident instructions coming over the IFB, but hoping they were in synch._

_He turned to Camera 2. “We’ll be right back after this quick message.”_

_He hoped Control registered the cue and made the jump to commercial five minutes ahead of schedule._

“Don’t even say it,” he said, holding up a hand, as Mac slid quietly into his office. “I lost control of the interview, I shouldn’t have—“

“You stood up for the integrity of your staff, Will. They appreciate it.” Despite the sad smile, her eyes crinkled with what seemed like that old fond regard. “I appreciate it, too.”

He yanked the tie off. “Yeah. Well. We’ve had better shows.”

“We knew to expect blow-back from Genoa.”

“I’d just prefer not to have blow-back in front of a couple million viewers.”

“Well, one thing’s for sure: tonight’s was a smaller audience than last night’s.”

He caught the gallows humor and made his own wry smile. “True. If we’ve got to have our noses rubbed in our screw up, it’s probably best to do it in front of as few people as possible.” 

He shot her an appraising glance, then began unbuttoning his cuffs. “When was the last time you slept, Mac?” 

He looked almost… concerned. It was an expression she hadn’t seen in a long time, but she wasn’t able to decode it further since he suddenly moved to the bathroom to finish swapping the Armani for his usual street clothes.

“I sleep,” she returned after a few moments, a slightly defensive edge to her voice. 

“Uh, huh.”

“Anyway, what I came to ask was—have you talked to Charlie?”

“He asked me to stop his office after the show tonight—he’ll probably have some choice comments now.” Pause. “Why?”

“I can’t—it really should come from him, not me—and I’d better not hold you up from—”

He returned, clad in the customary jeans and T-shirt. “What’s this all about, Mac?” He eyed her, feeling the weight of some important unsaid thing between the two of them.

“Will,” she blurted, “you need to know—Lance Reesling—”

His eyebrows shot up in amusement at the spoonerism and he barely contained a laugh. “ _Lance Reesling?_ Are you sure you don’t mean _Rance Leesing_?”

She, too, succumbed to the humor of the gaff. “Reese Leesing?”

Here they were—in the face of the worst professional predicament they’d ever faced—snickering over an inadvertent transposition of consonants. Together.

Their eyes locked, and his smile gradually seemed to be replaced by something else, and for just a moment, as he inclined his head, and moved nearer, she thought perhaps he—

His gaze drifted behind her and he abruptly straightened. 

She turned her head to see what had brought the change in mood.

“Well—is this workplace harassment or just the usual hanky-panky?” Brian Brenner was leaning around the door with a leer on his face.


	3. The Future Ain't What it Used to Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “MacKenzie, forget what you learned in Sunday school. Confession _isn’t_ good for the soul.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mea max culpa for taking so long to get this updated! I've added a chapter (or two) in penance...

**Second Day After Retraction**

 

“That, my friend,” Reese Lansing stabbed a finger in Will’s direction to make his point, “is a hollow threat.”

“We’ll see,” Will ground out.

“You’re not going anywhere, so just stop with the crown of thorns routine. _This_ is the ultimate responsibility.” Reese held up a sheaf of papers. “Mercedes, GM, Geico, fucking pharma—fifteen sponsors pulling their ad buys.” He threw the papers across the desk. “ _News Night_ and _Right Now_ have just become corporate baggage, because they can no longer pay for themselves. Beginning this week, you’re being propped up by our pet food division.” He made a mirthless laugh. “Congratulations on turning ACN into public broadcasting.”

“That’s why you need to listen to reason and let me—”

“I already told you that you’re exempted from having to participate.”

That smacked of unfounded concern over a fragile ego, so Will shot back, “And I told you that I don’t give a fuck about this little theatrical display you’re putting on in our conference room. I’d be happy to go three rounds with the asshole, just to—“

Reese huffed and continued, “You’re the anchor of the show and you just did the story that was presented to you by trusted subordinates.”

“I’m the managing editor, by the way, so I had the final say over _all_ the content. All of it. I could have delayed the story, or shelved it, irrespective of who brought it to me.” Will’s tone was pedantic. “Besides, Charlie is certainly not my subordinate.”

“I don’t know what you want, Will. I already said that you don’t have to play nice with Brenner while he’s here. So, just keep your mouth closed and your head down and let this thing play out.”

“Move Terry Smith to my spot, give Elliot some time to come back.”

“And you?”

“Disciplinary leave of absence. That way you can show there are consequences without—“

“—Without actually having any,” the other man finished for him. “Because we just recklessly aired a story about gassing civilians, so we’ll just give ourselves a little time-out and everything will be okay in two weeks?”

Will chewed on the inside of his mouth, trying to think of another approach.

Balanced on one hand, Reese leaned across the desk. “Get it straight, Will, because there is no negotiating this. There will be an internal review. Names will be named. Some people will likely lose their jobs over this. That’s just the way it’s going to be—at least, until AWM decides otherwise.”

“Your mother?” His lips forming a grim line, Will found it impossible not to make the retort about the Lansing scion’s own impotence in running the company.

“Yes, my mother.” Reese affected calm, but his voice rose an octave. “She founded AWM, made it what it is today. Divisions like Atlantis Cable News operate at her discretion—I don’t care what delusions Charlie Skinner may harbor. So, you and everybody else down there will have to wait on her judgment.”

Will rose and made for the door. 

Coming here this morning had solved nothing.

“You’re going to have to consider how you and your people downstairs have sullied the brand,” Reese called after him. “Oh, and pass that on to your ex, too.”

Will stopped and turned, frowning.

“She sent me a long, tragicomic email, an entire screen full of multisyllabic words about why she should be sacrificed to save you and—“

“Mac—?” Will set his teeth.

“She works for you. I think you even insisted on that point during your last negotiations.” Reese’s thin smile dared Will to contradict him. “Tell her to keep her grandiloquence away from me. If you want to ditch her, make it so, but you’d be wise to make it later.”

“Your point—?”

The smaller man shrugged. “Hers is likely one of the names on the top of the list to be fired over this. She could provide a bit of cover for you right now. Deflect some of the heat.”

“She’ll never—I mean, this so-called review—it’s such bullshit, it won’t have any professional credibility. For one thing, you haven’t hired a broadcast industry expert, you’ve got a newsprint hatchetman.“

“Okay, he’s a supercilious shit,” Reese admitted. “A little too fast with the offer to preside over an in-house review. I’m not stupid, you know—I know that vindication isn’t on his mind. I even suspected there was a personal angle—or, rather,” he eyed Will strangely, “I thought I did know. I thought it was just the opportunity to administer the _coup de grace_ to you.” He smiled with sudden comprehension. “But it’s her, isn’t it?”

Will shot an annoyed eye at the wall clock. “I’ve got a show to do,” he said, making for the door.

“Make sure she knows that this is on her, on all of you, and no one is going to get a quicker or less painful ride than anyone else,” Reese called after.

 

Meanwhile, the low-intensity wrath of _Genoa_ marched steadily on, grinding upon even the least culpable and lowest-ranked members of the ACN hierarchy.

The morning’s first casualty was Jenna, who had stopped by The Quirky Perk in Mid-town East for a once-a-week latte indulgence. But today, the barista had nudged the morning manager, who mentioned his own recent military service and suggested she take her patronage to a different establishment.

At the other end of the food chain, Charlie Skinner dropped his desk phone back to the cradle and sat stone still, thinking. 

Leona had erected some peculiar wall of silence: too busy for his calls; out of the office or with people when he tried to get past her secretary; nonresponsive to his email. He knew she was pissed at _News Night’s_ fall from grace, but it had taken two days of incommunicado to drive home just how angered she must be. After all, they had disagreed plenty over the years, on some important issues, too, but this was unique.

He found the breach unspeakably unsettling.

The third victim of the morning was Will McAvoy himself, who returned to his office to find Lonny Church studying his smart phone.

“No. Oh, no. God, no.”

“Good to see you, too, man,” Lonny said, rising.

“Don’t tell me—“

“Yeah, AWM called Blue North to put me back on your ass, because you called some Marines baby-killers—“

“No one called anyone baby-killers,” Will returned, enunciating each syllable with exaggerated patience.

“So, chemical weapons don’t kill babies? Are they, like, immune or something?”

“No—of course, chemical weapons could—but—” 

“But you got a fucking problem now, don’t you?” Lonny slipped his phone into his jacket pocket. “Did I ever mention I spent some time in uniform?”

This wasn’t simply _not_ going well; this was straight up ghastly.

Will threw up both hands to indicate surrender of the point.

 

On the third day after the retraction, the _News Night_ conference room transformed into a chamber of inquisition, with media commentator Brian Brenner presiding. Parallels to Torquemada were unspoken but inescapable.

Following Brenner’s surprise appearance two nights earlier, MacKenzie had been careful to keep her distance. She had resigned herself to the reality of the interrogations but resolved to remain as far away from them herself as could be possible. Still, she was profoundly disturbed to see staff members “perp walked” to the conference room.

To her horror, ACN had become the story. Even overlooking Fox’s predictable attempt to fan the flames, and a shrilly condemnatory _New York Times_ editorial, every news organization in the city, perhaps the country, was looking down its nose and condemning ACN for Genoa.

So, it was with a mixture of dread and an understanding of the inevitable that Mac heard the soft rustle of her door as it opened and then a familiar voice.

“Kinda cold in here.” Brian Brenner. He was grinning. “How about we warm things up?”

She just closed her eyes in response. 

She had believed that if she ignored his presence in the newsroom, if she made no attempt to acknowledge him or his purpose, that they could exist on separate planes. Like parallel lines that never intersected.

“You know, I’m getting the feeling that you’re avoiding me.”

_Fuck._ Now she had to open her eyes. “Really?”

He entered her office, the door silently closing behind him. 

“Has someone missed their appointment to repent to you?”

“Mac,” he chided, still smiling. “How’ve you been?”

“Slandering the U.S. government.” A beat passed. “Hadn’t you heard?”

Uninvited, he took the chair opposite her desk. “I’ve been good, yeah, thanks for asking,” returning a sarcastic non sequitur. “Traveling some. Just spent the last month in Philadelphia, working with the Inquirer.” He reached to pick up one of the newspapers on her desk, following the trail of her highlighter. “’Progress of category 1 destruction under the Chemical Weapons Convention’—have you really got McAvoy doing a follow up? That’s ballsy.”

“Give that back,” she extended her hand and he complied with a smirk.

“How’d you get dragged into this shitstorm, Mac? You’re about the last person I would have thought would ever be—“

She made a calculated noise of exasperation. “Unless this is my official interview for Reese’s little exercise in forensics, I don’t have time right now. Actually, even if this is the official interview—I still don’t have time right now. I have a show in three hours and—“ she gestured to the papers and files scattered over her desk, “a rundown to finalize. So, if you don’t mind—”

“Yeah, yeah, _capiche_. We won’t get into the details now. Maybe you can stop by,” he inclined his head in the direction of the conference room-cum-inquisition-chamber, “tomorrow. I’ll buy you lunch and we can catch up the last year.”

“Let’s skip the civilities, Brian. You just ask your questions and I’ll answer them as well as I—”

He laughed, startling her.

“What do you think this is, fair play? You were always stuck in some Arthurian fairy tale.” He leaned forward. “We’re just marking time, Mac. The Lansings want to see the dust settle—see how the dust settles—then they’ll make their move.”

“So they’ve already told you the verdict for your little inquiry?”

“Didn’t have to. You don’t have to be clairvoyant to see how this will pan out.”

“They’re looking for a scapegoat.”

“The right one. It obviously isn’t going to end with Dantana.” He rose and made for the door. “I’ll look for you around lunchtime tomorrow. We can run all the scenarios then.”

 

A cigarette.

The last one had been nearly three years ago, but, hey, you never forget how to ride a bicycle, right?

She tugged at the upper drawer of Will’s desk but it didn’t budge. _Locked. A ridiculous precaution to prevent the pilfering of tobacco._

Just as she was casting an eye about for a paperclip with which to pick the lock—

“Something you need?” Will frowned at her from the doorway.

She looked up too quickly, guiltily. “Thought perhaps I could bum a smoke—“

He harrumphed and marched to the desk, whipping open the opposite drawer and tossing a package of cigarettes in her direction.

“What’s driven MacKenzie McHale to nicotine?” he mused with crossed arms, leaning back against the credenza.

She eyed the cigarettes but made no immediate move to take one.

“I’ve smoked before,” she began, defensively. “A few years ago—”

“When you were in—”

“Yeah.” Her voice was flat. Neither of them really wanted to discuss the years away or the event that had precipitated them. Just one of those topics that was, by mutual (if unspoken) agreement, out-of-bounds.

Will pulled his lighter out of his pocket, to have at the ready when she finally took a cigarette, and began to turn it in his hand. “I saw Reese a little earlier.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. He said something about some email you sent him—“

“That was—privileged correspondence,” she shot back, with an injured tone. “He shouldn’t have—“

“C’mon, Mac. Stop agitating to walk the plank. Someone’s gonna take you seriously one day, and Reese might be the guy.“

“Don’t scold me.”

“You’re making it hard not to. He is naturally inclined to make knee-jerk decisions, and you shouldn’t offer him easy solutions.”

Pause.

“You’re doing it again.”

Now the pause was on his end. “Yeah.” Another long one followed, then, with a nod in the general direction of the conference room, “How’s it goin’ out there?” 

She took the arm of a chair and slowly sank into it. “Him being here is just another damned thing I have to be sorry about.”

There were long seconds of silence this time.

Finally, “It isn’t your—you don’t have to—“

She glared at him and he stopped, mid-sentence, before resuming the familiar refrain, “ _Genoa_ wasn’t your fault, Mac. It wasn’t the fault of anyone here, except that SOB who cooked the interview.”

“Don’t forget about your and Charlie’s shadowy source at ONI.”

“Plenty of blame for him, too,” Will admitted. He dropped into his own chair.

“Well, since you’ve asked—staff morale is in the gutter. The experienced folk are second-guessing themselves on every story now, and the young ones are re-thinking the choices that brought them here. I think a couple might be shopping their resumes around.” 

He nodded.

“Neal had to take down the blog, ostensibly for technical reasons—but, in truth, he was just being bombarded with hate messages.” She twisted her hands in her lap, unable to keep them still. 

“It’s going to get better.”

“You don’t believe that. It’s going to build to critical mass, then Reese will have to do something. Make a public execution.” 

He leaned forward and took a cigarette from the package, trying to affect nonchalance. “It won’t be you—you don’t have to worry about—“

“Who else should it be?” she erupted. “I can’t let them—“ she waved at the wall that separated them from the bullpen, “take the heat for this. I was the executive producer, I should have—“

An argument that sounded like _déjà vu_ , Will thought.

“We’ve been over this, Mac. Charlie okayed the story, he’s the director of the news division—I okayed the story, and I’m the managing editor—that’s two checkmarks above your—”

She made an exasperated huff and rose.

But he persisted. “So you need to pull yourself out of this—this _self-indulgent well of despair_ —“

He saw her bristle as the words, as he had intended.

“—And just get on with things. We’re in this together. They’re—” he gestured to the bullpen, “depending on you.”

“What about Brian being here?”

For a second, he drew a blank. _This time, this isn’t on me._ Then, in a strained if inexact riposte, “Figure something out, Mac.”

She left, never having taken the cigarette that had been the purpose of her visit. Will fit the one he had removed back into the package and scooped the pack into the drawer.

 

After the show that night, Jim took over post-production details while Mac sat silent, nursing private thoughts that were nonetheless mirrored on her face. 

The union techs—Herb, Jake, Joey—left promptly following the closing credits. But Jim had to shoo others out the door, even resorting to hurrying the stragglers by making fictitious but urgent assignments for research. What were the odds, anyway, that Tess or Martin would question the need to immediately research the impact of fracking along the New Madrid faultline?

He allowed a polite few minutes of feigned disinterest, during which he made busy motions with clipboards and pens, before looking at her.

“How you doing, Mac? Ready to call it a night?”

She offered a tired smile. “I guess so. Good show, by the way.”

“Same,” he returned, although they both were aware of how disengaged she had been throughout. Jim and Kendra had handled virtually the entire proceeding, even most of the voice direction to Will—who, interestingly, hadn’t asked as to the whereabouts of his usual EP.

She just looked so… sad.

“Maggie had her interview today.”

“Oh?”

“She said the questions were relevant and respectful.”

“Oh.” She still seemed distracted. “How is Maggie?”

“Better. Putting things in perspective, I think.”

She just nodded.

“This isn’t on you, Mac. Don’t let him—“ obviously referring to Brenner and his quasi-investigation, “get in your head. You made no mistakes. Hell, you were the one who finally saw through things and unraveled the whole mess.”

“That is an assertion not supported by facts.” Same sad smile.

“You know as well as I do that facts never tell the full story. You need judgment to make the narrative.”

“Possibly, but I can’t see that the judgment of this inquiry will be fair to us.” _Let alone kind._ “If you’re trying to cheer me up, Jim, I thank you, but it’s a lost cause.”

He paused for a long moment. “You used to tell me that lost causes were the only ones worth fighting for.”

This time she looked at him with something approaching her usual warmth and humor. “That was—youthful naiveté.” 

“You’ve got Charlie’s confidence.”

“For which I am grateful—”

“And Will’s.”

_Ah. A touchier subject._

“I’m mean, he hasn’t sacked you,” Jim hedged, “and he would if he didn’t—“

“It’s gotten late,” she said, pushing to her feet and dropping the headset she’d been holding since the conclusion of the show. “I really ought to review a few details tonight—make sure I’ve got the facts straight in my mind.”

“Did you hear General Stomtonovich outed himself today?” He frowned, shook his head. “Wait, I can phrase that better—I mean, he revealed himself as one of our sources.”

“Really?” Surprise replaced the resignation on her face. “I rather imagine the secret cabal of flag and general officers would have done it for him if he hadn’t. But I don’t see how it—“

“He said that with the exception of the guy who changed the interview raw footage—” Jim squinted at the very description, “he felt that everyone else he dealt with at ACN showed integrity. Mentioned Charlie and you.”

“And?”

“Well. He’s still suing.”

“Ah ha.”

“But he’s just mad he was taken out of context, that—“

“—That ACN altered the raw footage before airing it,” she finished for him.

“Damn Jerry,” Jim muttered before reconsidering. “God damn Jerry.”

 

By one the following afternoon, Mac knew she could no longer postpone the inevitable.

“Better late than never,” Brian grinned as she entered the conference room. He sat at the head of the long table and swung his feet back to the floor. “Hungry? As you can see, I waited.” He gestured to the platter of sandwiches and an array of iced soft drinks that anchored the center of the table.

Mac instantly understood that he expected his courtesy to be interpreted as something more personal than professional deference. So, she ignored the refreshment and took a chair, two away from his, and folded her hands.

“Rundown meeting at two, so I can give you an hour.”

“An hour. Hmm.” He reached for a can of diet cola, popped the seal, then peremptorily pushed it across to her. Another overly familiar gesture. “Well, let’s see what we can get done in the time that you have now. If need be, we can always arrange a follow-on tonight—”

“I have a show tonight.”

“I can accommodate that.” He smiled. “We’ll just meet after.”

This back-and-forth was becoming tedious, so she heaved a sigh of exasperation. “May we—?”

With one hand he reached for his yellow pad and pen and with the other he snatched a sandwich and bit down on a corner. “Um. If you could just tell me, in your own words, how you first became aware of _Genoa_.”

“Jerry came to me with a tip from his military source.”

“That would be—um, Cyrus West. Former air force captain.” He popped the remaining bite of sandwich into his mouth then looked up, still chewing. “Sort of a low-level guy for a high-level story, wouldn’t you say?”

That had been the part that nagged her most during the early days, when Jerry was trying to make his case for the story. West was a small fish and unlikely to have been privy to the kind of information he was peddling. She made a short nod.

“But you allowed Dantana his lead until—until the interview with Sweeney.”

“That’s right. I knew the military terminology and I knew I could quickly sort out—“

“Sort out if the gunnery sergeant was trolling an ignorant journo?”

Succinct and offensive. Total Brian Brenner.

“Something like that.”

“But everything he said checked out—“

“Not right away. The confirmations came in bits and pieces.”

“What made you assume Sweeney knew what he was talking about?” Brian reached for another sandwich but put it down, untouched. “He was another low level guy, really—had some combat ops behind him but had never seen the use of chemical weapons—“

“No one had ever seen the use of chemical weapons.”

He made a curt nod, ceding the point. “Okay, so we’ve got a jarhead who believes an unidentified third party who tells him it was a chemical attack. That it was deliberate. Your only corroboration is a former junior officer from a different branch of service—“

“There was Valenzuela—“ MacKenzie knew she was on thin ice here; she’d become convinced that her questions had somehow led the young man to confirm something of which he had no personal knowledge.

“That would be the staff sergeant whose interview tipped the scales. Convinced the Red Team.” 

Brian hadn’t made a single note, hadn’t looked at a single piece of paper. He leaned back and rubbed his hands together.

“Well, for want of a better phrase, it looks like the journos got trolled. Either through the ignorance of your sources or through some unknown ill intent, they got you to believe this—this story. Did you or any member of your team ever attempt to talk to the aircrew? The pilot, who would’ve been able to confirm any weapons packages on board?”

“We couldn’t locate—and anyway, we had the weapons manifest—“

“You were told it was the manifest. Even then, it didn’t spell anything out, did it? You extrapolated that the mystery cargo was sarin.”

Nothing he was saying was untrue. She just hated hearing it, and, particularly, hated hearing it from him.

“You sure you don’t want a—“ Brenner indicated the sandwiches, but Mac felt sick, not at all in the mood to eat. Let alone here, and with him.

Shaking her head, she finally took a sip from the soda in front of her.

“For all your personal baggage and your Pollyannaish-ness, I still regard you as too principled, professionally, to have knowingly been a party to this foolishness. I mean, seriously. So—you were distracted, got a little sloppy—let some junior staffers run roughshod over facts and ethics. Didn’t follow up on them as closely as you should have.” 

“I was in charge of the investigation—“

“MacKenzie, forget what you learned in Sunday school. Confession isn’t good for the soul.” His eyes rolled upward and he expelled a breath. “The problem is, someone’s gonna have to pay for the sloppiness. The dragon lady is going to protect Skinner, and McAvoy’s already gotten a pass from Lansing Junior, so that leaves—“

“What did you say, what about Will?”

Good. He had her interest now.

“McAvoy won’t be the face of this calamity. He doesn’t even have to participate in—“

_What? Had Will just been faking empathy for the staff as they submitted to the humiliation of this review? What had happened to 'We’re in this together'?_

“So, Mac, I’m going to advise you honestly and out of respect for how we once felt about each other. There’s a calculated effort to fix you with the blame, all of the blame, for _Operation Genoa_ , and let others, perhaps those more culpable than you, certainly no less, walk away scot free.” He tried to gauge her reaction to what was, to him at least, patently obvious. “You can hang around for the ax to fall, or you can get ahead of this thing.”

“Get ahead? How do you mean?”

“Clear out.”

“I’ve tried to resign,” she admitted in a quiet voice. “They won’t accept my—“

“Accept, hell! No acceptance necessary. You resign, that’s it, you’re out of the arena. Leave Skinner and McAvoy and the Lansings here to take the consequences.”

“Just quit?”

“That’s another name for it. You could also term it a strategic retreat. Anyway, forget the whole death-before-dishonor scenario I know you’re rehearsing in your head.” He pointed a finger at her. “You see? I know how you think. You think you can nobly protect the others. But they won’t appreciate it.” He paused. “Besides—what’s changed in a year?”

She shook her head in confusion. “I don’t—“

“What’s changed between you and McAvoy since the last time I was here? Has anything? Are you doing this for him? Don’t you see how stu—“ He stopped abruptly and took a different tack. “Why not take a little time off? You’ve got a trust fund, you don’t need the paycheck. And—“ his finger traced idle circles on the table surface and he cast his eyes down, “we were good together once, when we first—and we could, you know, think about giving it another shot—“

_Oh, God. Was it possible that Brian was not only offering career guidance but also making another play for her?_


	4. And Now, A Final Word

“I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure she’s holding her own.”

Will twisted from where he had been leaning over a desk, staring across the room, to see Charlie standing behind him.

Charlie inclined his head to indicate the conference room that still held Will’s attention, where MacKenzie sat across from Brenner. “He won’t rattle her.”

“I still don’t even know what the fuck he’s doing here. I went to see Reese, I offered—“

“I know. You offered to resign. Saving the patient before the autopsy, as it were.” Charlie shrugged. “Resignations are non-starters right now, I hope you’ve figured that out. We’re going to have to let the anvil fall on us.” 

Several seconds passed. 

“Anyway, I stopped by to let you know that we have been granted an audience with Her Majesty Queen Leona tonight after the show.”

Will’s eyebrow shot up. “The anvil you were speaking of?”

Charlie made a face. “I’ve been trying to get a meeting with her for a week, so we can work out the details of—well, the bloodletting, I guess. She’s made herself unavailable. Could mean she’s been talking to people, lawyers or Beltway bandits. Perhaps she’s been waiting to see if this is recoverable. I don’t know.”

“Maybe some outside pressure—shareholders or sponsors or just some Congressman throwing his weight around? Has the Pentagon made any further noise about prosecution under the Espionage Act?”

“Not that I know of, and even if it did, Leona really isn’t the type to succumb to outside pressure. It’s more likely to stiffen her spine, frankly.” Pause. “We’re still together on this, right?

“Yes. Solidarity might be the only thing we have in our favor.” 

“You know, someone really ought to start a Go-Fund-Me page for Sweeney and Valenzuela, because they’re going to need good lawyers. More than us.”

That hurt, too, the knowledge that the Marines who had come forward in a misguided sense of justice were now the most vulnerable to prosecution.

Charlie exhaled loudly and continued. “Well. Tonight, about 10pm on the 44th floor. Let Mac know, too. And—Will—don’t hold it against her that she had to—“ he indicated Brenner still holding court in the conference room, “—she didn’t have a choice.”

 

The two o’clock rundown meeting came and went. Jim helmed it in Will’s office, at the latter’s suggestion, which had the benefit of giving him rationale for loitering around the bullpen. Will kept the conference room in his view for the next half hour or so, feigning _bonhomie_ with the startled occupants of neighboring desk-pods and reading a newspaper that was curiously poised low enough to see over. Work finally intervened, though, when Gary found him and dragged him away to okay some video compositing planned for the following month’s election coverage.

By the time he returned to his post, though, Will found the conference room empty.

He tracked her down to her office.

“How’d it go?” he asked, with studied nonchalance.

She glanced up at his entry, then quickly back down. 

Even if she’d been inclined, she couldn’t put the exchange between her and Brian into words. There had been something deeply unsettling about his _nearly_ -consoling mien, his _nearly_ -sympathetic words. _He wanted to solicit her trust. He wanted her to know he had her best interests at heart. He had the power to save her._

Buried under all of it was the slight aroma of contempt.

_“I don’t need you to save me from Genoa, Brian. I’m prepared to take what comes.”_

_“I don’t think you are, not really. They have lined you up to take the fall for this little misadventure. Not only that, but they’ve got you convinced that you somehow deserve it, that you really are more culpable than the others.”_

_“Is that what you’re writing?” It was an ill-disguised dig at him, because he hadn’t written a word since they began the interview._

_He ignored the jibe. “I can help.” Again, with the condescension. “And I want to help you—“_

_Here it comes. The price for help is—_

“Mac?” Will prompted, dropping his pose of casualness.

She waved a dismissive hand. “Everything’s fine, Will. Did Jim take care of the rundown meeting? I’ve been thinking that we should move the story about the Syrian-Turkish border clash to the top of the B block—“

“MacKenzie.” He was frowning now, unwilling to buy her business-as-usual performance. “You know what I’m talking about. How did it go?”

“Brian did what he has always done.” 

_Work to undermine my confidence._

“But I think he has what he needs for whatever he’s going to write. The inquisition is over.” She forced a small smile. “I’m sure the staff will be thrilled. No further interrogations.”

“I didn’t—you know I didn’t have anything to do with him being here,” Not this time. “It was all Reese.” When she didn’t immediately respond, he attempted another tack. “Mac, I know how you feel about everything that’s happened—I know you feel some responsibility—“

Her eyes flashed. _Some responsibility?_

“—I hope he wasn’t able to make you doubt yourself. _Genoa_ was just—just a mistake. You can’t sacrifice everything for one goof.”

_But you did._

“Brian wanted to make sure I knew I still wasn’t good enough for him.” _Or for you, but that he was willing to take me anyway. To save me from myself._

Will caught the whiff of purposeful self-deprecation but was uncertain how to respond.

“Charlie wanted me to relay—Leona wants to meet with us tonight. The three of us.”

“Tonight?” That seemed to give her pause.

_The Lansings wouldn’t have had time enough time for a considered evaluation of Brian’s report—he was right, the outcome of this in-house review had always been predetermined._

 

There were certain pre-show rituals to which Will adhered scrupulously, though he would have been the first to decry them as superstition. One of them was a second shave prior to suiting up.

High definition was so unforgiving.

As he leaned into the mirror, making the usual faces necessary for a close shave, Don Keefer’s voice wafted in from the outer room.

“Will, you here?”

“Kinda busy right now.”

Don’s reflection bobbed behind him in the mirror. 

“Remember last week when we were talking about you addressing the whole _Genoa_ thing on-air?”

Will looked up in irritation. “No.”

Don thought for a moment, then began again. “Okay, now that I think about it, it was probably Elliot I was talking to. Maybe Zane. But definitely last week, and—“

“You wanna hurry this up?”

“Yeah.” He took a deep breath, wanting to get through this as quickly as he could. “Will, you need to say something. You don’t have to jump too far, but somebody has to at least acknowledge the elephant in the room. Frankly, I’m surprised that Mac hasn’t—but we have a credibility problem until we do. Now, Elliot and I could do a little piece—but it really should be you. You’re the heavyweight at ACN.”

“On air? You’re out of your mind.” He turned, electric razor in hand. “For one thing, corporate would kill me.”

“The optics of that might help, too. But, seriously, every news outlet has covered it—“

“—To our detriment, by the way,” Will reminded him.

“Exactly, but who’s going to speak up for us if we don’t?”

“Mac’d never go for apologizing to the audience. She would just double down—“

“Mac’s wrong, Will. Maybe she’s counting on the integrity of all the other stories you’ve done to minimize this disaster—but it won’t be enough. We need to get our side out there. Someone ought to—“

As Don spoke, Will’s mind raced. 

_—Acknowledge that we made a mistake._

After all, giving credence to a trusted source had been a _mistake_. Relying on that experienced D.C. producer had been a _mistake_. Leading a source during an interview—that was also a _mistake_.

_Everyone at ACN had believed what they needed to believe in order to support the narrative that served them—even though the truth had been there all along._

_And sleeping with an ex-boyfriend…_

_That, too, was a mistake. A big one. But was it a fatal one?_

_It was easier to believe she’d done it because her love for him had been lacking. That narrative served him._

_And, of course, it had made it easier to cast her out._

Don was still yammering on, but all Will could hear was—

_Be the leader. Be the moral center of the show. Be the integrity._

“—And while you’re at it,” Don continued, unaware of the long detour Will’s thoughts had taken, “someone should say something to the newsroom, too. I thought Charlie would’ve by now, but—there’s a bunker mentality developing in the staff and—“ 

 

Mac was the last to join them, stepping off the elevator as Charlie checked his watch. 

Leona’s usual secretary had gone home for the evening, so an unknown lackey guarded the door and forced them to wait. Will and Mac sat while Charlie—not quite pacing—moved from wall to wall, leaning against each briefly before moving on to another.

The door to Leona’s inner sanctum opened and Brian Brenner exited, folding a recognizable rectangle of paper.

_A check._

His eyes lit on each of those who waited, in turn, finally resting on MacKenzie.

“Give me a call,” he said before continuing on his way. He missed her turning her face heavenward, eyes closed. 

And Will balling his fists.

Leona’s minion cleared his throat and indicated the open door to the throne room. He was plainly determined to make this train run on time.

Inside the dark office, Leona was elegantly coiffed and still in an expensive cocktail dress from whatever soiree she’d left in order to take this meeting with her errant wards. When Charlie moved near her—to shake her hand? Kiss her ring?—she took a perceptible step away.

Ah. This would be strictly professional then. Nothing— _personal._

Charlie brought his chin up in a defensive stance. Evidently, everything had been decided and they had been summoned simply here to have the verdict read to them.

What was the worst that could happen? Lose their jobs? Each of them had offered to resign at least once over the last week.

Perhaps the best prepared for the Lansing model of outrage, having dealt with Reese earlier in the week, Will braced himself and started. “Firing Jerry was obviously the right thing to do, but it wasn't enough. Charlie and I have to go.”

“And Twiggy over here?”

“It was my fault,” Mac managed quietly, her eyes in front of her and focused on nothing in particular.

Leona minced over. _“McMac.”_ It sounded mocking. “Can I call you McMac? Doesn't matter, I'm gonna anyway, McMac.” She paused. “Your head's up your ass.”

The cheek of that comment forced Mac to look at the other woman in surprise. “Mrs. Lansing—“

Leona made an imperious motion for silence. 

“Reese talked me into hiring that self-anointed media expert to come in to perform some unholy inquest. He just gave his report about where the problems were—you should see it. ” She held up a sheet of paper with only three lines of visible type on it. “’Fire the entire production staff. Move Barrow to New York in McAvoy’s timeslot. Pay off Dantana.’”

She tossed the sheet at her desk and missed.

“Guy comes in here— into my hizzy—a guy comes in here, cooks an interview, no remorse—it makes it to air. You—” she stood before Mac now, accusingly. “I don't know what you could do to Sherlock Holmes this thing. I couldn't have figured it out and I'm the smartest person in the room.”

Lightly, trying to ratchet back the emotion and get back to the legal practicalities, Will said, “Well, I wouldn't go that—” 

“Oh, shut the fuck up, you Daniel Craig wannabe.”

“I don't want to be Daniel Craig.” Where the hell did that come from?

“Well, you should want to be Daniel Craig. Everybody should.”

Charlie tumbled to the only logical conclusion. “Leona, are you stoned?”

She studied her reflection in the dark window. “You know, my makeup lasts a long time.”

“Oh, jeeze.” _We are so fucked._

“Mrs. Lansing—” Mac tried to maneuver the conversation back to cause-and-effect, the inevitable conclusion of the sordid little _Genoa_ tale.

“No, no, please, call me—“ She thought better of it. “You may continue to call me Mrs. Lansing.”

_As cuddly as a cobra._

Charlie tried again. “Leona—“

“Guy comes into my house, which I love.” She waited a beat at that, checked their reactions. “Which I bet you guys didn't know. But I love it. I love ACN. You don't make me a nickel and you cause headaches for the divisions that do, but you make me—well, most of the time, anyway—you make me so proud.” 

After delivering this stunner, she paced away three steps before turning back.

“God, this guy Dantana embroiders an interview, and this ends up—because he's unemployable now, he gets a $5 million settlement and the three of you leave? Oh, I don't think so.” She looked fierce. “And McMac—you know, that’s a name that's really starting to grow on me,” she gestured back to where MacKenzie sat, “ _she_ doesn't have to go. Nobody’s ever heard of _her_.”

_Okay, a slight exaggeration to make the argument._

“—But she's going to do the honorable thing. And what's expected of me, huh? _Not_ to do the honorable thing?”

Charlie hadn’t seen Leona this riled up in many years; she was talking in all italics. He stood mute with the horrified fascination of watching a train crash before him.

“No, I _do not_ accept your resignations. And Jerry Dantana's not gonna get _one fucking dollar_. I got some kick-ass courtroom outfits.”

“U.S. Code Title 18, Section 229. Prohibited activities, to include the use of chemical weapons. Section 793. Gathering, transmitting, or losing defense information. Each count punishable by no less than five years imprisonment and $10,000 fine,” Will recited with the sterile inflection of one who had recently reviewed the statutes. “Leona, you have to accept our resignations and you have to settle. Jerry'll take it to trial and win. There was an institutional failure and he was the only one fired.”

“Then you'll need a good lawyer.” Rebecca Halliday sashayed over from where she’d been eavesdropping at the doorway. “Don’t apply, McAvoy,” she said in an aside before joining Leona. “Lee, don't accept their resignations.”

“I already wasn't accepting their resignations, ’Becca. Don't horn in on my honorable thing.”

Charlie erupted, “Leona, we don't have the trust of the public anymore.”

“Get it back!”

 

Ushered back to the antechamber of Leona’s suite, Will, Charlie, and MacKenzie stood in mild shock.

“Is it… over?” Mac wanted to be hopeful, but so much had happened—it was hard to know where things stood. On anything.

“She’s not firing us,“ Charlie said, disbelievingly. 

“She may change her mind,” Will muttered, unwilling to raise his hopes.

“I don’t think so,” Charlie shook his head, looking back at the door to Leona’s office. “She can be pretty resolute when she picks a course of action. If she thinks we should stick it out—“ he shrugged and allowed a small smile to turn up the edges of his mouth. “Well. We live to fight another day.”

He moved a few steps away before looking back over his shoulder. “Got time for a celebratory whiskey?”

Mac just looked down, but Will shook his head, inclining it slightly in her direction.

Charlie nodded acknowledgement and tottered off toward the elevator.

“You okay? Mac?” He looked at her with concern.

She made a tight nod, then dropped her face again. “I didn’t—I wouldn’t—there’s nothing between Brian and me. You ought to know that. He made it sound as if—“

“I know.”

“He was looking for an opportunity to—.”

“He’s pretty transparent. If he’d said anything that meant something to you—well, I don’t think you’d be here now.”

She nodded weakly then exhaled and ran a hand over her forehead. “I’m tired.”

“Let me give you a lift home.” His concern was genuine.

“Thanks, but Jim’s waiting for me. He’ll make sure I get home. I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah.”

 

“What now?”

Mac’s voice betrayed annoyance at the chirping interruption of someone’s mobile phone to the final rundown meeting, a cramped gathering of a dozen folks in her snug office. 

It was the following day, one still uneasy for the high drama of the night before. She desperately wanted a return to normalcy in the newsroom, so—even though the conference room was empty, Brian’s sham investigation now complete—she had gathered the staff in her office once again for the rundown meeting. On some level, it afforded a comforting camaraderie.

Kendra held out her phone to affix the blame to it. “There’s—there’s—Mac, there’s something, some announcement from DoD—I think it might be about _Genoa_ —“

Mac and Jim briefly exchanged glances before she spun around to her computer monitor and he flicked the remote to the flat screen on the wall. Eight pairs of eyes in the room latched to the television, where a uniformed officer with rings of gold braid extending to the elbows of his jacket took the podium and shuffled papers.

“Good afternoon. I’m Admiral Perry Devlin, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. I have a brief announcement, following which I will take a few questions.”

The Pentagon certainly was bringing in the big guns. They meant business.

Mac swallowed. 

“Eight nights ago, Atlantis Cable News aired a segment alleging the premeditated and knowing use of chemical weapons—specifically, Sarin gas, a nerve agent—on civilian personnel during a rescue operation that was known as _Operation Genoa_. The U.S. Department of Defense categorically denies this assertion and will provide recently declassified documents to disprove ACN’s claim.

“Let me be clear. No, repeat no, U.S. personnel used or caused to be used any prohibited chemical weapon against foreign military or civilian personnel during _Operation Genoa_ or any other military engagement.”

No one in Mac’s office yet dared to exhale. They’d been around the block enough times to suspect more was coming.

On the TV, the admiral looked down at his notes, hesitating for long seconds.

“However, in the course of our investigation to refute ACN’s claim, it has been, um, determined that an incendiary munition known as White Phosphorus may have been deployed, resulting in a number of civilian casualties.”

Everyone in Mac’s office now seemed to be suffering from oxygen deprivation, and none dared risk a glance away from the screen.

“White phosphorus is a material commonly used for illumination or to create a diversionary smoke screen during clandestine operations, such as those routinely performed by members of a Special Operations team. It has many hazardous properties, one of which is its ability to self-ignite in certain conditions. At this time, we have no reason to believe it was knowingly or deliberately deployed for this operation, but an investigation is now underway to resolve the matter.”

The admiral reached for a glass of water. “I will now take your questions.”

Even through the television screens, the press in the briefing room was heard to roar.

The admiral pointed to someone off-screen.

“Can you give us the number of casualties attributed to—“

“We can confirm that seven deaths and possibly twenty-four injuries are linked to this event.” He called upon another reporter but the question was inaudible.

“No. There were no casualties to U.S. personnel.” He shifted his eyes around the room. “You.”

“How many soldiers participated in the raid and which of them would have the access to—“

“When white phosphorus is used to illuminate a landing field or as an aviation signal, the senior aircrew—the pilot and co-pilot— would have both access and the authority to deploy it. If the material was to have been used as a diversion during a raid, the on-scene special operations commander would have had access and authority. We are still in the preliminaries of this investigation, however, and these are the facts that must be established.” The admiral looked farther back in the room. “Yes, you.”

Another inaudible question, which the admiral this time partially repeated for the benefit of others who hadn’t heard. “Disciplinary action? It is neither possible nor appropriate to speculate about possible disciplinary action to the military members of this mission. We have an investigation underway and we will allow that process to play out. And before we speculate about fault or blame in this scenario, I would like to remind everyone present that these men put their own lives on the line that night to rescue two young Marines from a gruesome fate.”

“How about ACN?”

The admiral’s eyes narrowed at the question yelled at him. “What about ACN?”

“Is the government still considering charges under the Espionage Act because ACN raised this story?”

“ACN alleged a different story, one that involved deliberate use of prohibited chemical weapons—“

Another voice rose above the others. “Isn’t white phosphorus—actually, any incendiary weapon—classified as a chemical weapon by the United Nations?”

The admiral held up a hand, obviously not relishing the question. “The Organisation for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons, which _advises_ the U.N., has suggested the reclassification of white phosphorus as an actual chemical agent, but this recommendation has not been adopted by either the U.N. or the United States.” He stood there a moment, visibly uncomfortable in this defense. “We are well aware of the ethical and legal implications of any use of this substance, and that is why we are now scrutinizing every aspect of Operation Genoa. As for your original question as to the culpability of Atlantis Cable News in their erroneous claim—

 _Erroneous?_ Jim’s eyes widened with understanding of the importance of that one word. _Erroneous_ didn’t equate to _criminal_. The Pentagon was backing down.

“—And, therefore, no charges under the Espionage Act are contemplated at this time, although—“

Mac’s office erupted and Jim waved frantically to quiet them.

“—Caution all news organizations to more rigorously vet their stories—“

Jim gave up trying to quell the tumult of emotion in the room. 

 

Will had watched the announcement alone in his office, but his phone lit up the moment it ended.

Charlie, of course.

“Go home. I’m shutting down _News Night_ and _Right Here_ for the evening.”

“What just happened, Charlie?”

“A left-handed vindication, but I’ll take it. The Pentagon didn’t want to appear to be letting us off the hook while they were really letting us off the hook.”

“We were still wrong, though. We reported Sarin, when it was really white phosphorus.”

“From the perspective of public opinion, that’s a detail.”

“Pretty significant detail.”

There was a pause on the line, then, “I don’t know, Will. But there’s going to be an investigation this time. And simply because I’m both a patriot and an optimist, I’m going to say there will be accountability in some form, at the end of the day. We were misled on the particulars, but we got the basic story right.”

“You used to have a higher threshold for accuracy, Charlie.”

“That was before I nearly watched all our years of work evaporate. Before I saw the baby going out with the bathwater.” He sighed audibly and Will could picture him shaking his head in some mixture of exasperation and resignation. “Because of this statement today, we’ve got a toehold on what Leona charged us with last night. Regaining the public trust. But I want you, all of you, out of the public eye tonight. I’m giving the air to D.C. We became the story today and we ought to let others cover that. Tomorrow, we come back.” Beat. “Will?”

“Just—just thinking that people died and we’re kvetching about blame.”

“If we hadn’t covered it, nobody would know that those people died.”

“Yeah.” It still left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Go home. Decompress. I’ll call Mac to let her know—“

“No, I’ve got it,” Will interrupted. “She deserves some good news from me for a change.”

 

MacKenzie was aware of many eyes on her despite the loud drone of voices in the room.

“Five o’clock, that’s cutting it close—To make sure it hits the evening news programs without much time to vet the story—Any idea how I can get my resume back from MSNBC?—I never saw the Chairman of the JCS make a press statement even during _Operation Iraqi Freedom_ in 2003—Where’s Will? I wonder how he’s —We need those graphics from the other week, all of them—My mother is going to be so relieved—”

Mac raised her voice. “We still have a show, people.”

“Listen up,” Jim belted in reinforcement. “Martin, you’re on Syria; Gary, you and Tamara take Hurricane Sandy relief; Kendra, get with Maggie and Tess and start working up the Genoa follow-up, in light of this announcement, oh, and call Mike Tapley and see if he’s available to—“

He was interrupted by Will’s head poking through the door.

“No show for us tonight. Charlie’s thrown everything to D.C. He doesn’t want us to cover us, thinks it’s better if others do.”

“He’s seen the—“ 

“Oh, yeah.” Will looked around at the staffers, all now suddenly anxious to escape the confines of Mac’s small office. “You can go.”

Still, they waited for Mac’s nod before pouring through the door.

Will, having stepped to one side to avoid the onslaught, framed himself in the door again once the crowd had dispersed. 

Jim hesitated. “Someone really ought to be available in case D.C. needs some assist—“

“No. Charlie’s right,” Mac agreed. “It isn’t good— _beseeming_ , whatever—for us to cover ourselves. Detachment lends perspective, right?” 

“That little statement from the Pentagon doesn’t totally exonerate us, of course,” Will equivocated. “We drew national attention to the incident, but we blew the fact check. Not too many folks in this business are going to give us a pass, so tomorrow may be rough.” 

“Worse than the last week?”

“Probably not that bad.” He ducked his chin and looked sympathetically at MacKenzie, who slumped behind her desk. “All the more reason to go home as ordered and rest up. Besides—a night off would do you good, Mac.”

“Mac, I can—“ Jim began, before Will’s withering gaze made him reconsider an offer to take her home. “Go home. I can go home. I guess. Now. I probably should.”

Will stepped to one side of the doorway, indicating Jim should pass, and he did, though not without another glance back.

After the door had closed behind Jim, Will moved nearer.

“You okay?”

“This is the third time this week the floor has dropped from beneath me,” she said, forcing a tired smile. “I think I’m about wiped out.”

“How about I see you home, Mac? You need some sleep.” 

“You propose to administer it forcibly?”

He made an amused hum and took her forearm and began to tug her up.

She tried to shake him off. “Look, Will—I’m all right and—“

“You’ve been saying that for years, MacKenzie, and you may have convinced yourself, but you haven’t convinced me. The car’s downstairs and we’ll have you home in minutes.”

She was too tired to protest. Whatever, Will. Whatever.

Without releasing her arm, he guided her to a providentially open elevator and punched at the L button.  
Once the car reached bottom, he steered her to the curb, where Lonny Church opened the door to a glossy black SUV. She scooted across the leather bench seat and sagged against the window as Will gave instructions she couldn’t quite make out.

The trip was near instantaneous. She had just closed her eyes, it seemed, when Will was nudging her, “You’re home, Mac.”

He accompanied her upstairs, and waited patiently while she tried to shake the sudden fatigue that made her sufficiently confused that finding the key to the apartment took nearly a full minute of checking pockets and purse. 

“Will, I—“

“You’re home. Go brush your teeth and jump in bed.” He aimed her at the only corridor that could lead to another room and gave a gentle push. “Good night.”

“It’s only six thirty—“

“Good night, MacKenzie,” he repeated, firmly.

 

She woke two hours later, still in the clothes she’d worn to work, sprawled across the top of the bed with only a small blanket dragged over her. After several minutes of lying there, trying to recall the dream she’d just had (worrying but not frightening), she tried to reconstruct how she’d come to be home at 8:37pm when she should have been at work.

Oh yes.

The late afternoon announcement that the U.S. military had blinked in the stand -off with ACN. It was a victory of sorts, wasn’t it?

Trouble was, she had reached the point where it was difficult to process what was happening.

Yesterday, there had been the uneasy interview with Brian, his advances all the more repugnant for his open disdain. Then, last night, that strange meeting with Leona Lansing. 

_Was she for real?_

The refreshment afforded by the nap began to wane, replaced by familiar worries.

Fortunately, the light of Times Square pouring through the window was still the best nightlight and it impelled her out of bed. She washed her face of the makeup she’d neglected to remove earlier and of the mysterious crustiness about the eyes that might have indicated tears—if only she could remember any crying. But she couldn’t. So she put on yoga pants and an old Tshirt and big fluffy socks, because her feet were cold. 

Perhaps a cup of tea and a biscuit would help her sort things out.

There was— _someone_ —

“Will?”

He bolted awake in the dark, in the room that did not face the junction of Broadway and Forty-Second. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I brought you home.” He pushed upright on the sofa, rubbing his jawline. 

“I remember that. I just—well, I assumed you left.” A logical assumption.

“I thought you might wake up and be hungry—“

“Hungry,” she repeated, dubiously.

“—Yeah, and I could—“

“Call for take-away?”

He shrugged. “Well, it’s usually called take-out over here—but, yeah.”

She crossed her arms. “Will. What the fuck are you doing here?”

He rolled to the edge of the sofa, pressing the sleep out of his hair, and stood. His stare seemed so intense that she almost thought she could make out the blue of his eyes despite the dark of the room.

“I wanted you to know—you made a mistake, Mac—”

“I know that.” Did he intend to make a new, private rebuke over _Genoa_ now?

“It isn’t what you’re thinking.” He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it more. “Look, Don’s been after me to say something to the staff, some sort of buck-them-up-during-adversity-speech. I was going to do it today, but the Pentagon’s announcement made it sort of OBE. Overcome by events,” he added, quickly, to unpack the acronym.

“The good that comes out of _Operation Genoa_ is that, ultimately, that you shined the light into a place that needed illumination. A buncha civilian casualties that ought not to have—“

“We got it wrong, Will,” she interrupted. “We said Sarin gas when it was really—”

“The point is—my point is—it was a mistake. We got the detail wrong, but the basic story was right.”

“Details matter!” 

“Yeah, but there’s the degree of the screw up. Even in the law, you’re allowed to consider intent. Sometimes it makes the difference between a felony and a misdemeanor.” Beat. “And I don’t think—you intended—how I took it—when you—“ His voice trailed off. “Because, knowing you—and think I do know you well—the big picture was—you were suddenly certain about us. You just wanted to clear up a detail—what you thought was a detail. But I just couldn’t react any other way—“

“What are we talking about, Will?” she asked softly, knowing but needing to hear him say it outright.

“How did I ever let you think you weren’t good enough? Or let a detail stand in the way of— Mac, I am so, so sorry—“

“What’s happening right now?”

“I’m saying I’m sorry—for time wasted and for details, a really insignificant detail—and I’m saying that there’s a ring in the drawer of my desk that’s yours, if you still want it—“

She pulled back. “I still don’t—“

“I love you and I’m just not going to stop—some sort of, um, physical law or something—and I could do this better if I hadn’t just woke—no, that’s it, I love you, and I’m sticking to it.” Pause. “You really should say something back to me right now, or I’m—“

Eyes wide in surprise, she finally deciphered the meaning in his stilted phrases. It was overwhelming.

“Will—?“

“God, MacKenzie, I really need to know if you—“

She launched herself at him, nearly toppling him.

The first meeting of their lips was still tentative, a bare grazing that hinted of reconnaissance—eyes open, gauging the emotional weight of what was happening, soft hesitation and meaning in the spaces. The second kiss was willing dream into reality, eyes closed, breath held, the heart bared. By the third time their lips touched, celebratory abandon had crept into the match. 

There might have even been a soft giggle.

His hand came up to cup her jaw, hold her firmly so that he could reacquaint himself with her soft inner mouth. When he pulled back, he caught the expression on her face and his heart plummeted. 

“M’Kenzie—what’re you thinking? Moving too fast? Should we stop?”

She tucked her lower lip in that quintessentially Mac gesture. “After all this time, moving too fast is a bit oxymoronic, wouldn’t you say?”

“Then what?”

“I’m just trying to—take it all in, you know.”

“I love you, MacKenzie,” he repeated in a low voice, eyes locked with hers. “What do I do now, what do you want me to do?”

A slow smile spread across her face. “Kiss me again. Then take me to bed and let’s see.”

He lowered his mouth to hers, and the kiss was free of the earlier hesitancy, his hands sinking into her hair and pulling her nearer as she tightened her grasp of his shirtfront. 

Finally lifting his head, he whispered, “Progress report?”

“You’re doing fine,” she hummed.

He scooped her up and made his way toward the light of the bedroom.

“How do you stand this? I mean, you can almost read a newspaper in here right now.”

“Billy, I will be very hurt if you have a newspaper with you.”

Tugging a corner of the comforter back, he pushed her back against the pillows. He flipped his shirt off in a single smooth motion then fell alongside, his mouth finding hers for several ravening kisses. He moved down the side of her throat, alternating little bites and soothing kisses, encouraged by her breathy moans. 

Her legs parted instinctively, and he rested one hand on an inner thigh, the other hand stroking her hair.

“May I?” He gave a playful pull to her yoga pants.

“I was sort of counting on it.”

He curled his fingers under the elastic waist and began to roll the fabric down. Once he had it past her knees, she sat up and grabbed at the hem of her shirt, yanking it over her head.

His eyes widened appreciatively. One hand grazed her breast, palm passing experimentally over the stiffening nipple, and she felt the tingle of wanting more—needing more—of a warmth starting between her legs and spreading upward. Slowly, his hand circled her breast, reverently tracing the contour, until he took a more direct assault and lowered his lips and tongue. Her small whimper only seemed to encourage him, and his tongue coaxed her nipple to peak.

Her hips were already beginning to gently undulate, and he returned to kissing her face, loving the familiarity of the sounds she made and how she responded to him. He had once tried forcefully to forget this, forget everything about her, and his abject failure in that regard merely made plain how hopeless the effort had been. He loved MacKenzie—he loved everything about her—but this, loving her, most of all.

Will bunched her panties to one side and slipped his hand between, his fingers delving her cleft, petting and stroking and wresting a few soft sighs from her. Her own hand came up to his cheek, then his neck, through his hair, as she pressed up into him, her breathing becoming hoarser.

“Stop being so civilized, Will,” she teased, moving her hand down to the hardness between them. 

“Be brutish, check,” he murmured, nuzzling between her breasts while he attempted to unobtrusively loosen his jeans. It didn’t work. Finally, he broke away, rolling to the edge of the bed and kicking off his pants.

“I’m back,” he whispered, returning his hand between her legs and zeroing in on well-remembered topography. His long supple fingers circled and pressed at her clit, teasing and rubbing. He slid one finger inside her and heard her small gasp. Yes, there. He withdrew, resuming his attention to her sensitized nub. 

By way of response, she constricted her fingers against the skin of his shoulder and arched upward.

He kept the pressure firm, the rhythm insistent. 

Her breathing became broken—then finally a soft huff wrenched from the back of her throat. “Billy—” his name slurred from her lips.

When her eyes finally fluttered open, he asked, innocently, “Uncivil enough yet?”

She took a half minute of deep breaths to recover, then whispered, “I want you inside me. Please.”

He rolled between her legs, pushing one back for better access. She was very wet, but sensitive still, so he moved slowly, allowing her time to adjust.

She tried to lift her hips slightly to meet him and he took more of his weight on his forearms, to keep it off her and allow her to move with him. His fingers curled over her shoulders and he began deep, measured thrusts. She wrapped her legs around him and yielded to the sensation of his motion, his scent, his breath on her. When she shuddered around him, he sped up until the rhythm began to falter and he seized up in pleasure.

Finally, their ragged breathing soothed to normal and they fell into a remembered post-coital embrace.

“I love you, Billy,” she murmured, aware he was fading and wanting to put it out there one more time.

He heard it and smiled. 

And his last thought, before tumbling into sleep, was that she needed some curtains for this room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I don’t think any of us would quibble with the canonical Will and Mac reconciliation at the end of Season 2, I never bought Sorkin’s resolution (or lack of one) for Operation Genoa. This is just me playing around with a different ending.


End file.
